


The Detective of Smoke and Bone

by nxvarros (orphan_account)



Category: Daughter of Smoke and Bone, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/nxvarros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a crossover between the Daughter of Smoke and Bone series (by Laini Taylor) and the T.V. series Sherlock. {If you haven’t read DoSaB, go do it, but you don’t need to have read it to understand the story.} I do not own either property, or anything you may recognize here. This is not beta’d, brit-picked, or Czech-picked.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Business in Prague

**Author's Note:**

> This is a crossover between the Daughter of Smoke and Bone series (by Laini Taylor) and the T.V. series Sherlock. {If you haven’t read DoSaB, go do it, but you don’t need to have read it to understand the story.} I do not own either property, or anything you may recognize here. This is not beta’d, brit-picked, or Czech-picked.

     It was just another balmy spring day in London, about a month after the Moriarty affair. Currently, he and John were lounging in the sitting room of 221B, as they often did when they had nothing better to do. John was on his laptop blogging the latest case they had solved, a curious one involving a pleasure cruise. In a fit of boredom, Sherlock flopped onto the sofa and began flipping channels on the television. He landed on the news, and set down the remote with a resigned grimace. Perhaps there would be something interesting on the news today. He was hoping for a serial killer or particularly juicy murder, but doubted he'd find anything.

     “Now for an interesting turn of events. A young woman in Prague allegedly fought with a pair of angels, and escaped with the aid of a third. For more information, we turn to Kathy in Prague.”

     “Thanks, Diane. I’m here with one Kazimir Jankovic,the ex-boyfriend of the alleged angel-fighter. Now, Mr Jankovic, can you tell us what happened last Tuesday night?”

     The boyfriend recounted his versions of events, which were almost completely fabricated. Out of nowhere a pink water balloon descended - as if from the heavens - and burst on his head. Now covered in bubble-gum-pink paste, the young man turned beet-red and fled the scene. Muted giggles could be heard from above.

     “Er… back to you, Diane.” The footage cut back to the anchorwoman. Exasperated, Sherlock hit the off button. The man had to be a nutter, or drugged at the time of whatever had happened. The next minute, however, Lestrade came bounding up the stairs. Panting, he explained his predicament. Finally engrossed, Sherlock and John rushed off into the night, caught in the chaos of London's criminal class.


	2. Night at the Museum

            One morning, about three months later, they heard about the break-ins. One after another, all over the world, in no discernable pattern. From San Francisco to Beijing, museums were reporting break-ins, but nothing could be found to be missing, and they could find nothing on the security cameras.  Until one day, they did find something. It was in Chicago, in the Field Museum. The mysterious thief had slipped up. He or she had shown up on exactly a second and a half of security footage, but it was enough. Scouring the museum, they found that the thief had been stealing teeth. The other museums examined their own natural history wings and found that they had been robbed of their teeth as well. Even Sherlock couldn’t make heads or tails of it, though he certainly tried. Sitting on the sofa, he retreated into his mind-palace and ruminated on the strangeness of the entire situation. He was shaken from his reverie by Lestrade shaking his shoulder, evidently having been let in by John.

            “You’ve heard about the museum teeth thefts, right Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded, somewhat annoyed by the interruption.

            “Well, we’ve got another one. At the NHML. Will you come?”

            “No.”

            “No? Sherlock, this has to be above a seven. Why won’t you come?” Lestrade paced, exasperated by Sherlock’s antics but somewhat worried as well. Theft wasn’t normally his division, but Mycroft had specifically asked him to cover this, as he believed that was the only way Sherlock would become involved. Apparently a person who could do this sort of crime was a threat to national security.

            “You know perfectly well why. My brother _obviously_ asked you to cover the case, and besides, you know I don’t investigate theft. I prefer murder. The motives are too bland and boring. You can just tell your little boyfriend that he can piss _off._ And stop sleeping with him before you come to me; I can deduce it and quite frankly, it’s disgusting. _”_ Sherlock flipped on to his side and faced the wall.  He actually would have taken the case, except he was mad at Lestrade for interrupting him in his mind-palace. Lestrade blushed, but knew that Sherlock was just pushing his buttons.

            “Sherlock,’ John spoke up, “you haven’t been out of the flat for _days,_ and quite frankly, you’re driving me mad. You need something to do, and this sounds like the perfect distraction. Just take the damn case!”

            “Alright, alright, just stop nagging me. I’ll take the case,” Sherlock replied testily. _For you John_ , he added mentally. He stood up, grabbed his Belstaff and scarf, and motioned for John to follow him. Lestrade and John trailed outside.

            The ride to the museum was largely uneventful. Surprisingly, Sherlock and John had managed to arrive before Lestrade. They took the moment to look around. News of the burglary had spread quickly, and a giant crowd had formed around the museum entrance. One girl in particular stood out. Around 17 or 18, the girl had shockingly blue hair and was covered in tattoos. She was slender and pale, and she seemed out of place at a natural history museum. Lestrade arrived soon after, and took them to the crime scene. The specimens in question were a family of sabre-toothed cats, and now they were missing their fangs.

            “Alright, Sherlock. Do your magic,” Lestrade said.

            “It’s not _magic,_ it’s _logic_ ,” replied Sherlock.

            “I don’t care what it is, just do it.” Lestrade replied. Sherlock bent down and examined the sabre-toothed cats. Strangely, he could hardly make anything out from the cats. Pulling out his magnifying lens, he gave the mouths a closer look. Whoever had pulled out the teeth had been clever, very clever. He or she had been strong but dexterous, and was used to handling teeth with precision. A dentist or an orthodontist perhaps? Unlikely, but possible. Moving on to the museum himself, he could find no footprints, fingerprints, or traces of a break-in. There had been laser security, but it hadn’t been tripped, so the thief had been very agile, someone like an acrobat. An acrobatic dentist? He pushed away the thought. Suddenly, something caught his eye. He picked it up. It was a single strand of blue hair-and it matched the exact shade of the girl with the tattoos. He mentally cursed himself. _Of course. She stayed to observe her handiwork._ He turned on his heel and told John and Lestrade to follow him. Without waiting for them to follow, he sprinted back towards the entrance. Of course, by the time he arrived, the girl had been long gone.

            “Damn it,” Sherlock cursed. “Lestrade, set out an alert for a young woman with blue hair, about 17 or so, heavily tattooed. She’s our thief.” Lestrade, having finally caught up, nodded silently and walked back to the remaining officers. Sherlock knew it would be no use, however. The police were idiots, always were, and always would be.  He stepped into the street and hailed a cab.

            “Mind telling me what that was all about?” John asked on the ride back. Sherlock held up an evidence bag containing the strand of hair. John’s eyes widened. “That … that can’t be!” He exclaimed. “It looks like her hair wasn’t dyed at all. It seems as though it grew out of her hair that colour!”

            “I know,” Sherlock replied grimly. “That’s why I took it with us. Lestrade and his cronies won’t know the right tests. I’m going to run a few experiments. If I can figure out how she managed to do this to her hair, I believe I can locate her.” The rest of the ride passed in a cheerless silence.

            As soon as they arrived at 221B, Sherlock rushed up the steps, leaving John to pay the cabbie, _again._   John hardly heard a word from his flatmate over the next few days, as Sherlock had become obsessed over the case of the girl with the blue hair. He did, however, hear from Lestrade, who told him the girl had somehow vanished. Sherlock would not be happy to hear that. Over the same set of days, the girl struck three museums in three separate countries.

            About a week later, Sherlock finally emerged from his mind palace, scowling. “Nothing!” he said angrily. “Not one chemical, not one dye. It’s as though the hair _actually_ grew that colour. But it’s not even possible.” He flopped onto the sofa, exasperated.  John mentally prepared himself for another period of silence and sulking. The last time Sherlock had failed to solve a case, he had sulked for 17 days. John practically had to force feed him more than once. He idly wondered how long this time would be.


	3. The Email

            Sherlock stared at the telly, hardly blinking. The stupid news was running _another_ story on that damn series of thefts. How many times could they spew the same rubbish? An infinite number, apparently. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and Sherlock was glad he had let John convince him to get dressed. After the Adler case, John had been mortified by his behaviour at Buckingham Palace, and he had agreed to get dressed every day even on days when he would normally wear the sheet.  Of course, it was in exchange for being able to run more experiments, but everything came with a price.

            “John, get the door!” Sherlock switched off the telly and turned around to find that John had already let the visitors in. There were two of them, a young man and a young woman. The young man was tall, somewhat good looking, - _from Prague. Violinist, in a relationship with the woman. Wants to marry her, eventually. Has come seeking help, about something important. Not to him, no. To the woman.  Something important to the woman._  He turned his gaze to her. She was short, and looked like a rabid fairy- _dancer, puppeteer, in a relationship with the man (obvious). She’s missing something, no, someone. A friend? Yes, a friend. Wants our help finding him/her, more likely her. The friend may or may not be in danger. She’s left something, but what? A message, a riddle?_

            “Hello,” the girl said in a Czech accent. “My name is Zuzanna, and this is my boyfriend Mik. We were told you solve things? You could maybe help us?” Zuze was not used to being scared, but she felt very nervous. Since the whole thing with Karou, and the angels, and Akiva, it was as though her entire life had been turned upside down. She clutched Mik’s hand for support, and was glad to feel the warmth of his hand encasing her own. “Is it alright if we sit down? We just arrived from Prague, and we’re very tired, but this cannot wait.”

            “Of course,” John replied amicably. “Would you like some tea?”

            “That would be lovely,” responded Mik. He and Zuzanna sat down on the proffered sofa and waited for John to return.

            “Now,” John said as he came back from the kitchen with four cups of tea, “What can we help you with?”

            “My best friend is missing,” began Zuzanna. “But this is more than a kidnapping or murder or something. Karou’s the face of the apocalypse.”

            “I’m sorry, the what?” John spluttered. He had heard many strange things since moving in with Sherlock, but this certainly took the cake.

            “Yeah,” added Mik. “Didn’t you hear? About three months ago, in Prague? Of course the only one they interviewed was that snotrag Kaz, so you probably heard something that was way off, but I thought even you Brits would have heard by now.”

            “Wait. The girl in Prague- that was your friend?” John asked, eyes wide.

            “Yeah,” sniffled Zuze. “Karou. She’s awesome and badass and gone, maybe to another world, but she left a message. A riddle. Mik and I can’t make heads nor tails of it, and we thought, since you’re the greatest mind of the century and all, maybe you could help us?”

            “You didn’t have to fly all the way to London to ask for my help. You should have contacted us through John’s blog and saved us the trouble. You should forward me the email, and then return to Prague. I will contact you when I have solved the case. Off you go!”

            “Sherlock! That was rude!” interrupted John. “I am _so_ sorry about my friend. He can be a bit rude sometimes. Sherlock, why don’t you go to Prague with them? There may be something in her flat that everyone else missed.”

            “Oh, of course!” Sherlock jumped up. “Very good, John. For an idiot, you are surprisingly intelligent! Book us two tickets to Prague - I’m not going without my blogger.” With that, he turned on his heel and strode into his bedroom, presumably to pack.

            John showed the visitors out and sighed in relief. Finally, something that would stop Sherlock’s sulking. He had had it UP TO HERE with his moping, and it seemed he would get a trip to Prague out of it as well. He was not too fond of the city since the whole Moriarty business, but maybe this trip would change his mind. He phoned Lestrade to tell him that the two of them would be out of town for a few days, then grabbed his laptop and began making arrangements for the trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry for the short chapter, but it had to end here or it would have gone on forever.


End file.
